


Mack the Knife

by PerilousCowboy



Series: 100 Songs Challenge - Billboard Top 100 [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 20:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4638894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerilousCowboy/pseuds/PerilousCowboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 100 Songs Prompt.  It's not the first time Illya's been stabbed. It's certainly not going to be the last. He hopes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mack the Knife

There’s a gaping wound in Illya’s side that he’s trying to stitch together in front of the bathroom mirror. Except his hands are shaking, he’s left a trail of blood in his wake that the whole city could follow to their position, or so it feels like. Does he have a drop left in him? Or does it now all stain his hands as it continues to leak from the wound at his side. 

Napoleon paces with the phone behind him, speaking to Waverly, no doubt. Telling him the mission was a success, even if he had required an extraction. That the highly classified files were safe and in the hands of an UNCLE agent bound for Vienna, where Waverly would be waiting to receive them. And that no, he didn’t need to take a plane out here and that yes, Illya would be okay. 

Solo’s head poked around the corner, the phone cord stretched out as he peered into the bathroom, still on the line. “Do you require a nurse?” he asked, that blasted look on his face that was both smug and concerned. As if he were pretending not to be worried, eyes casually drifting to the towels stained red, lining the sink. 

Illya doesn’t answer with words. It’s an ice cold stare Solo gets back that is the Russian way of saying no, thank you. Or at least Illya’s way. He’s got this. If only his hands would stop shaking. 

The man behind him apparently doesn’t get the message, because he only tips his head again, showing he needs some verbal response. 

“You are not my type,” Illya growls out, plunging the needle in again. The stitches have taken on a zigzag pattern that he hadn’t meant to be there. He used to be so good at this. 

Another moment of a quiet stare back at him and Solo’s bringing the receiver back to his mouth. “I’d say yes, why don’t you send someone up.” Illya huffs juveniley at the response given to Waverly, but Solo’s done with him, apparently, turning to finish the conversation before Illya can protest further. 

The door opens and Illya’s eyes are on the mirror. It’s not a nurse, but someone worse. Gaby. Of all the times… She stops to look at Solo as he stands in the middle of the room, bobbing his head towards the bathroom and Illya will remember this later when the man wants to hide from their little spitfire. 

Walking into the bathroom, Gaby ignores him at first, her eyes sweeping over the bloodied towels the same way Solo’s had before her head tips up to look at him, a question on her gaze. “Illya,” she calls his attention, the same lilted husk to her voice as always. “Did you forget how to dodge?” 

It’s an admonishment. He growls slightly into the mirror at her, but it’s more because he’s injured than because he takes any offense to it. He knows better by now. She admonishes and chastises but at the end of the day, she’s still standing next to him. When she didn’t have to be. 

“He was Russian,” Illya tells her as way of explanation. 

“Uh huh,” she says, turning to look at Solo, who’d finally gotten off the phone with Waverly and went to pour himself a drink. He simply waves a hand dismissively, somehow feeling her gaze, to signal that he’d already been over this and hadn’t gotten anywhere with the man. “Does that mean you let him stab you? Is that the Russian way?” 

Illya washes blood off of his hands and growls again. “It means he was good fighter.” He’s almost hesitant to grab the needle again because he knows she’s watching. But the wounds got to close so he does and tries to hide how much they tremble in front of her. 

Gaby doesn’t say anything and he almost wishes she kept fighting him on it. Fighting he can do. Fighting he knows how to do, even if it leaves him with wounds. But she doesn’t fight him. She reaches for his hands, instead, pulling them away from the wound. Her voice lowers and he doesn’t know if it’s to hide it from Solo or because this is still something new for them. Even after all these months together. 

“You’re trembling,” she tells him, but it’s not a question, like the reminiscent memory of when he’d said the words to her. It’s a statement, a reasoning behind her taking the needle. She slides in front of him, between the sink and him, forcing him to take a step back and he tries to look annoyed at how pushy she is. But her hand touches lightly against the skin above the wound. 

It hurts. Not because of the gash or the blood still seeping. It hurts because this is new and he’s not used to it. That he doesn’t know what to say at such a simple touch because he’s always in control. He likes his women strong, but he still likes it when they think he’s stronger. 

“It is blood loss,” he tells her, because it’s safer to admit that than it is to play along right now. 

Gaby’s dark eyes rise to his before she calls out, ignoring him this time. “Is there a nurse coming?” It’s aimed towards Solo, who appears at the doorway to the bathroom as if on cue, holding out a tumbler of gin for her. 

“Yes,” he tells her, matter-of-factly. “Any moment now.” He waggles the gin at her. 

She doesn’t take it. Instead, reaching up to drop the bloodied needle into the clear liquid. Solo makes a face, but lifts a brow at her. She just gives him a look before grabbing the last clean hand towel from the hook in the bathroom. She folds it carefully in those slender hands of hers before pressing it against Illya’s side. He grunts, now the pain coming for more obvious reasons. 

“I do not need you to baby me,” he tells her in protest. 

Pressing harder into the wound, it nearly takes him to his knees. He manages to stay upright, but only after moving a foot back to brace himself, eyes wide as he looks at her, that dangerous glint to his eyes that is sometimes aimed at her, but never followed through on. Ever. 

“I know,” she tells him. “ _Sit, Illya_ ,” she tells him in Russian and the words are said so firmly, in just the right tone that he doesn’t fight her on it. He stumbles, though, as he takes a step backwards to sit on the toilet. It’s Gaby’s hands that stable him, a stronger hold than one would imagine from her on his arm, keeping him for keeling over. 

Solo takes a breath and sometimes, despite how good the man is at conning those around him, he’s more easy to read than he means to be. “I think I’ll see where our dear nurse is,” he tells them, turning to head back to the phone. 

“It is slight cut only,” Illya calls out to him, annoyed to be in this position. 

A snort answers him. “Remind me later to teach you the meaning of the word  _slight_ , Peril.” 

Gaby intrudes before he can protest, standing in front of him to block his view. She’s washed her hands of his blood, now resting on her hips. “I have a request,” she tells him. 

Caught a little bit off guard by the comment, he tips his head back, focusing on her face instead of the lightheadedness that’s threatening him. “What is it?” he asks, concerned that what ever comes out of her mouth next will not be pleasant. 

She leans down, getting closer than he knows what to do with. Her hand comes to rest on the side of his neck and by all accounts, after everything that had happened today, this is the most out of his element he’s been. 

“Don’t pass out,” she whispers to him and it completely shatters the moment. She smiles at him and he gives her an annoyed look, ready to argue before she leans forward and presses her lips to his forehead. It takes him off guard again and he’s never known a woman who is so completely capable of keeping him off balance. With that, she stands and heads out of the bathroom, over to pour her own drink. Vodka. Not gin. “You’re much too heavy to lift, Kuryakin.”

“I do not pass out!” he yells at the both of them and in the mirror, he sees them exchange a glance they think he can’t see. One of acceptance, camaraderie, a glance that yes, this is their Red Peril and yes, he is stubborn and dangerous, but no, they wouldn’t have it any other way. 


End file.
